


the beauty of a secret

by starscry



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Handcuffs, PWP, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 18:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: The warmth of simple tipsiness weighed her limbs and simmered in her head. She felt pleasant. Languid. In the mood to make some questionable life decisions.





	the beauty of a secret

“No. You’re not going downstairs like that.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Chris. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“Are you kidding me? Your ass is practically hanging out!”

Okay, maybe it was a _little_ that bad. Claire sheepishly tugged the costume’s shorts down a bit, just enough to cover whatever wasn’t covered and stymie Chris’s innate Older Brother Wrath before it fully reared its ugly head. She glanced back at Chris and pointed at her now- _not_ -hanging-out-ass as if to say, _see? everything’s fine_. He didn’t deign her with a response, instead crossing his arms over his chest and staring her down with knitted brows and the same stern expression reserved solely for times of particular Claire-induced irritation, like whenever she ate the leftover takeout in the fridge clearly marked ‘CHRIS’S – DO NOT TOUCH’ in thick black Sharpie or let her dirty clothes pile up on the laundry room floor hoping Chris would get the signal and _maybe_ play the part of the nice big brother and do a load or two for her. Claire tugged the shorts down further and didn’t get so much as a sated eyebrow raise from him. 

Okay, maybe it was a _lot_ that bad.

“Change into something else, Claire,” he said, tone indicating no tolerance for argument.

Claire argued anyway. “I don’t _have_ anything else! This costume arrived late enough as is.”

“Then just.. wear whatever you normally do. Just not..” he waved a hand in the air, gesturing vaguely to her revealing ensemble, “ _that_.”

“I didn’t realize being my older brother gave you the authority to police my outfit choices,” she snapped back, irritation escalating. “Look, it’s a Halloween party for a bunch of adults. You really think some of the other women aren’t going to show up in outfits like mine? Ten bucks says at least Jill will.”

“My house, my rules.”

“Don’t start that shit with me, Chris. I’m old enough to wear whatever I want.”

“Look, Claire,” Chris sighed. “I just want tonight to go well. Everyone’s gonna be here – hell, I even convinced the Captain to come; I don’t want to have to deal with anyone getting drunk and grabbing at my little s–” his words were suddenly cut off by the doorbell’s shrill chime. Teeth grit, Chris glanced between Claire and the staircase just beyond her room’s doorway that led down to the front door.

“You shouldn’t keep the guests waiting,” Claire said, the perfectly-timed interruption curving her lips upward in a smirk.

Chris shot her a frustrated look and strode out of her room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle some of the framed pictures hanging from her walls. 

Turning, Claire stared at her reflection once more in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of her room’s door, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth as she took in the whole outfit. It looked, admittedly, racier than it had in the catalogue, and she inwardly cursed herself for not ordering a size up. She’d thought it was an entertaining choice – dressing up as a policewoman for a Halloween party populated by S.T.A.R.S and RPD members, having a good laugh over it with everyone; now, she wasn’t so sure. Chris had seemed so genuinely annoyed with her, and she supposed she couldn’t fault him for that. He wanted this night to be perfect – the first party thrown in the shitty two-story house he’d bought at a foreclosure auction soon after they’d moved to Raccoon and the first time he would have all of his friends and squadmates over after all of the fixing-up both he and Claire had done was finally finished. The occasion coincided perfectly with Halloween, so he’d invested a fair amount of time and money into making sure everything was perfect; apparently, his younger sister mingling with his coworkers while wearing a _slutty cop outfit_ , as Chris had so eloquently put it, didn’t exactly fit his idea of perfect. 

The shorts seemed to be in some constant, damnable state of riding up in the back even when she pulled them down, and she was admittedly glad that the costume had come with dark sheer stockings that coupled with her ratty and age-worn combat boots, giving some semblance of modesty, however small the amount. And, really, the top wasn’t anything Chris _hadn’t_ seen on her before; it was black to match the shorts, with long sleeves and buttons that ended conspicuously lower on her chest than she would’ve typically liked and a shitty plastic badge spraypainted gold with some generic five-0 logo and pinned to the fabric. Sure, the top was cropped higher than any of the midriff-baring shirts she owned, but that wasn’t anything to throw a fit over. Claire had decided to forego the ugly hat it came with and instead used the plastic aviators included in the outfit to keep her hair out of her face, perched atop her head. The costume even came with a tactical belt made out of faux leather that slung low on her hips and a pair of handcuffs that clipped to it and completed the whole tacky, sexy-imitation-of-a-police-officer look. It wasn’t the _worst_ thing she could’ve picked out of that catalogue; Chris should have at least been thankful that she hadn’t chosen the nurse outfit where the model’s whole ass _was_ hanging out.

Ears keened to the noise downstairs, Claire heard Chris talking excitedly to someone that sounded like Jill. The doorbell rang several times in quick succession, whoever was outside undoubtedly slamming it as fast as possible. Claire snorted – Forest, no doubt, trying to annoy the shit out of her brother. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard the front door open, Forest’s voice carrying up the stairs as he and Chris greeted each other and exchanged friendly jabs. 

The other attendees arrived shortly afterward, dressed in an array of Halloween costumes. Claire made her way downstairs to mingle with Chris’s coworkers, clothed as Top Gun characters, pirates, doctors, and everything inbetween. She noted Jill’s Rosie the Riveter outfit was decidedly _not_ as skintight and revealing as her own outfit, and knew she’d get a snide remark from Chris about that particular point of her argument later. 

All of the S.T.A.R.S. members were there – even Captain Wesker, she noticed, had decided to show. Chris, ever the good host, passed around cans of cheap beer and hard cider; when Claire attempted to snag one, he shooed her away. 

“When you’re twenty-one,” he said. Claire tried her best puppy-dog face on him, to no avail. He’d grown immune to it after so many years of incessant begging from his little sister.

 

As the party wound on, Chris herded his guests downstairs to the basement that he’d renovated and converted into something of a cozy man-cave-slash-den area, and he was well-naturedly goaded into showing off the shotgunning skills he’d picked up and honed in the Air Force with the aid of a few cans of PBR and Barry’s car keys. Claire watched, mildly impressed that her brother could puncture the side, pop the can, and chug everything inside in a matter of seconds; she hadn’t even mastered the art of not spilling beer all over herself whenever she tried to do the same at parties, yet. Chris’s display of his shotgun prowess soon devolved into a tipsy competition between the Alpha and Bravo teams to see which was the fastest, and, sensing an opportunity, Claire snuck upstairs into the kitchen while Chris was occupied. 

She snagged a can of Coke from the fridge and the honey Jack from the liquor cabinet where Chris stashed it and poured herself a drink that was more on the side of A Lot of Jack and a Tiny Bit of Coke than it was the traditional Jack and Coke. If she was going to be sidelined and forced to watch her brother and all of his friends get shitfaced in the name of Halloween, it was at least fair that she sneak in on the action, Claire figured. She poured water back into the Jack bottle, filling it back up to where it had been before she’d taken any; sure, it diluted the liquor and lightened the amber color a bit, but Chris wasn’t _that_ attentive and usually went for his stash of cheap Bacardi, anyway, if he was in the mood for something harder than the crappy beer he usually drank. He wouldn’t notice, and if he did – well, better to ask forgiveness than permission, Claire figured. 

She slumped down on the tired couch in the living room with a heavy creak, legs hanging off one of the arms and head propped up on a stack of pillows. Tipping the solo cup to her lips, she took a long draw and wrinkled her nose at the bite of Jack on her tongue; the taste of hard liquor never seemed to agree with her, no matter how much she persevered and drank anyway with the assumption that she’d eventually become accustomed to it. Claire mentally cursed herself for not adding more Coke, but she grit her teeth and drained a good few shots’ worth from the cup before setting it on the coffee table beside the couch. 

Just as she was about to reach for the TV remote to flick something on as background noise while she leaned back and waited for the alcohol to hit, she noticed someone standing by the accent table pushed up against one of the living room walls that was packed with framed photos and old trinkets Chris had picked up during his days in the Air Force. Claire sat up, brow furrowed; broad shoulders, slicked-back blond hair, the rims of a pair of sunglasses just visible on his face from where he was standing.. _Captain Wesker? Why’s he not with the rest of them?_ Claire thought. 

He was holding one of the picture frames and looking down at it, face impassive. Claire squinted – it was a recent photo, one of the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha team that they’d all taken together as a group. She remembered the day Chris had brought it home in a cheap Walmart frame and set it proudly on the table, nestled in amongst photographs of family and friends. The thought made her smile absentmindedly. Just as she propped herself up into a sitting position to get a better look at Wesker, the old couch let out a loud _creak_ and his head turned in her direction. Claire couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or _through_ her, eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Wesker remained inscrutable as he set the picture frame back from where he’d taken it, palm pressed flat against the woodgrain of the table, fingers drumming on the edge of the red runner that stretched over it.

“Miss Redfield,” he drawled, raising a finger to push his glasses snug upon the bridge of his nose. “I’m surprised you aren’t _celebrating_ with the rest.” The word was laced with sarcasm, as if one could call drunkenly shotgunning shitty college-kid beers some form of ‘celebration.’

Claire sheepishly scratched the back of her head, hand jostling the aviators perched atop her hair. “Chris doesn’t let me drink,” she replied, mentally attempting to will Wesker from noticing the solo cup on the coffee table and making some smartass comment about it. 

She’d met the man several times before since Chris had come into his employ; Wesker had a rather.. distinct personality, and hadn’t refrained from remarks directed toward her before, despite the fact that she was his point man’s younger sister. From the time she’d spent around him, she’d gleaned that he was no-bullshit, snarky, and could often be a bit of a dick, if she were to put it lightly. Still, he had an undeniable draw that she couldn’t resist – some odd air of combined attractiveness and authority, always able to capture her attention whenever he was around. Claire couldn’t quite get a complete read on the man, which irritated her. Regardless, Chris trusted him wholeheartedly, so she leaned more in the direction of tentatively liking Wesker, in spite of his coarse nature.

Wesker’s eyes settled on the cup and, despite Claire’s best attempts at telepathically turning his attention elsewhere, he let out a snide snort. “I see you’re apt at disobeying orders,” he remarked dryly, slowly crossing the room to settle on the other end of the couch.

“It’s, uh. Water,” Claire replied quickly, cheeks flushing and shoulders tense. She pressed her back against the other arm of the couch, attempting to mold herself with it as far away from him as she could. 

A quick glance at the cup’s dark contents led to Wesker raising an eyebrow that read _really?_ “I don’t intend to tell your brother, if that is what you’re afraid of, Miss Redfield. You can relax.”

Claire sagged back against the threadbare cushions, still stiff despite his prompting. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do in this situation; he seemed to be making no moves to go anywhere, elbow resting on the arm of the couch and chin perched in the palm of his hand, attention focused on her. A small portion of her mind told Claire that she should make up some lame-ass excuse, run, shut herself in her bedroom and wait out the rest of the party until all of the guests had drunkenly stumbled home, Wesker gone with them. A greater portion, however, was intrigued to talk with him, if only for a bit. Indulge the draw she felt toward him.

Absentmindedly, she found herself wrapping a hand around the plastic cup on the table, holding it out to him. “Want some?” she offered. It was, after all, her home. Only right that she should make a guest feel welcome. Or something of the sort. 

She expected him to refuse, but, to her surprise, Wesker took the cup, leather-gloved fingers brushing against hers momentarily. Claire withdrew her hand with a start, suddenly hyper-aware of what she was wearing in front of him. Self-consciously, she attempted to pull the cropped top down to cover her midriff a bit and crossed her arms tight over her stomach. God, if Chris could see her now. He’d fucking _freak_ and she’d be in for the lecture of a lifetime about modesty and how she needed to act more like a _lady_ and all of the other garbage he’d picked up from Mom once upon a time when she used to spew the same shit at Claire years ago. 

Wesker swirled the liquor inside the cup around for a moment, seeming to contemplate it, and took a sip. “Fan of bottom-shelf liquor, are we?” he asked, drawing the cup away from his lips with a distasteful wrinkle of his nose. “What did you put in this?”

Of course he’d have some taste for fancy liquor, Claire thought, taking the cup back from Wesker as it was passed to her. He seemed the type; god forbid he deign to indulge in a bit of poor man’s alcohol without some snide remark.

“Uh. Just Jack and Coke. You never had this at college?” Claire replied, brow raised.

“No,” he replied dryly, tone indicating that pursuing that particular thread of his life would not end well for her. “But it seems you have, despite your brother’s mandate.”

“What Chris doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“The age-old motto of every delinquent.”

She let out a huff of sardonic laughter. “God forbid I spare myself from having to hear the same lecture from Chris another ten times after he finds out I’m doing something he doesn’t like.”

“I’m sure your brother has your best interests at heart. He speaks highly of you.”

“He does?” Claire asked, perking up. She was surprised he spoke much of her to his coworkers at all.

“Mm. He mentions your academic achievements often.”

Her cheeks flushed. Chris was proud enough of her to warrant telling others about it; the thought quirks the corners of her lips upward into a small smile as she took another short draw of alcohol.

Wesker crossed his arms over his chest, eyes still fixed on her behind his glasses. “What are you studying, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh,” Claire mumbled into her cup, lips still around the edge. She fumbled it back onto the coffee table and licked the excess liquor from the corners of her mouth. “I – um, I haven’t declared yet, but I’ve been thinking a lot about majoring in Psych. Took a class to tick off one of my gen ed requirements and I ended up loving it; I’ve got until next semester to figure it all out, though.”

“Psychology,” Wesker echoed, lips pressed in a contemplative line. “I hadn’t thought you the type.”

Affronted, she sat up from her slump into the couch cushions, shoulders square with him and brows drawn together. “Yeah? What _type_ did you think I was, Captain?” she snapped back.

“Wesker,” he corrected. His impassive façade had been replaced by a look of wry amusement, the edges of his mouth ticked up in a small smile at her obvious defensiveness. “I had you pegged for.. Art History, perhaps. Philosophy. Some field of study requiring minimal effort, allowing you to focus on–” his head tipped toward the alcohol in her hands, “– _Other_ activities.”

“Studying hard and having fun aren’t mutually exclusive,” Claire deadpanned, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The notion that college kids who drank, had flings, or indulged their desires meant they didn’t care about their education or were too simpleminded to pursue hard degrees was so tired. She’d heard the same bullshit too many times, from elderly and young and her brother alike; it got old rather quickly. “I’m capable of doing my work and _other activities_ , too.” Her eyes met his as the words rolled from her tongue, deliberately mocking his tone. Claire took a pointed sip of her drink. 

“So it would seem,” Wesker replied. Behind the tinted lenses, she saw his eyes flit slowly up her body, taking in the costume she wore. Back to her face, that stupid fucking smirk never once leaving his lips. 

Claire flushed under his gaze and tore her eyes away from him. She wished she could blame the heat that kindled low in her stomach on the alcohol and not on how much she privately enjoyed how his eyes had lingered; she knew she couldn’t, though. A few shots of diluted seventy-proof weren’t enough to get her _that_ far – not yet – considering the alcohol tolerance her year and some change in college had built up. The warmth of simple tipsiness weighed her limbs and simmered in her head. She felt pleasant. Languid. In the mood to make some questionable life decisions. The self-consciousness she’d felt before slowly melted away under his stare; Claire let herself relax back against the arm of the couch, crooked one knee and slipped the other leg down until the toe of her boot was nearly touching his thigh, didn’t bother to tug the edges of her cheap costume shorts down when they rode up. She toyed idly with the handcuffs clipped to her belt and watched Wesker as their conversation lulled. 

“What are you supposed to be, anyway?” Claire asked after a few moments’ silence, Wesker’s reaction to her imperceptible. Her gaze darted up and down his body – he looked like he belonged in a graveyard standing amongst funerary mourners around a casket, dressed in black, black, and more black. Wesker’s ribbed turtleneck clung nicely to his toned torso, tucked beneath a leather belt, and what looked every bit like the same dark uniform pants Chris wore to work were cuffed at the bottom just above the older man’s boots. He appeared ready to sprint into combat at a moment’s notice, save for the absence of a flak jacket and his weapons. The entire ensemble was darkly attractive – moreso than the typical S.T.A.R.S. getup Claire had only seen him in beforehand.

“A vampire.” Sarcasm laced his tone. 

Claire snorted. “What, no fangs? Can’t get much sucking done without those.” She choked her laughter back in her throat at the god-awful innuendo, an intentional attempt at getting some sort of rise out of him. Her poker face was difficult to maintain.

“Something with which I’m sure you have plenty of experience.” Wesker’s hand reached up, took his sunglasses off slowly; he folded them in one gloved hand, eyes meeting hers unobstructed for the first time. Claire knew his reply was a purposeful jab, a counter to her innuendo with his own. She could feel the mood shift from banter to something.. more. 

A hand skirted over her boot, fingers just barely skating along the stocking-covered skin of the ankle nearest to him. Teasing. Eyes never once leaving hers, daring her to take the next step. 

“Mm,” she hummed in agreement, letting her legs fall open slowly, prompting him to run his hand up the inside of her calf. Her knee. To the edge of her thigh, palm splayed there, leather-covered hand cool and heavy. “I’ve experienced a lot. All of those _other activities._ ”

“Perhaps you could demonstrate your skills for me.”

It was as close to a go-ahead as she figured she’d get, and Claire wasn’t one to let an opportunity like this slip through her fingers. She’d had her fair share of underwhelming, no-strings-attached flings with fumbling college boys who pawed at her with inexperienced hands and came in record time once inside of her; Wesker seemed like he’d be far more competent than any of them, possessing the learned experience that came with age, and the idea of fucking an attractive man in his position of power who reciprocated the interest she showed in him turned her on more than she’d like to admit. _Carpe_ fucking _diem, I guess,_ she thought, moving down the couch and straddling him, one knee pressed to the cushions on either side of his waist, neatly settled in his lap. 

Wesker’s palms found her thighs, resting just above her knees and moving slowly, lazily up them. He teased the swell of her ass that the shorts didn’t quite cover, fingers slipping beneath the hems, gliding along the smooth material of her sheer stockings; the sensation abruptly ended, much to Claire’s disappointment, when his hands left her skin. As she dipped her head down to press her lips tentatively to his, a small gasp of surprise slipped from her when his hands found her ass once more, squeezing firmly, pulling her body closer to his until what little space had been left between them was no more. Her breasts pressed against his chest and prompted a small smirk from him against her lips as he allowed her to lead him in a languid kiss, rocking slowly – back, forth, back, forth – in his lap, Wesker’s hands guiding her in the push-pull, heavy on her rear. 

She ran her hands up his sides, relishing the feeling of the hard, toned muscle beneath his shirt, palms gliding upward until they found the sides of Wesker’s face, cupping over his cheekbones, fingers mussing his styled hair. Wesker nipped at her lower lip, and when she parted her lips in surprise, took the chance to slip his tongue into her mouth roughly. He drank in the breathy moans that he skillfully elicited from her.

Just as his fingers had found the top few buttons of her cropped police officer’s top and were working on thumbing them open one by one, Forest’s voice carried up from the basement, booming as he eagerly yelled, “ _Redfield got the last King!_ ”

Claire pulled back abruptly from Wesker’s mouth and pressed her palms flat against his shoulders, lips sore and cheeks pinked. She gave him a wide-eyed stare, the reality of their situation hitting her like a fucking truck.

“We need to move upstairs,” she murmured, gaze flitting to the closed basement door that was just visible down the hall. A roaring chant of “ _Red-field! Red-field! Red-field!_ ” sounded from behind it, and she figured they must’ve been ass-deep in a game of King’s Cup. Claire’s lips quirked up; her brother was undoubtedly shitfaced by now and would be suffering the brunt of it tomorrow morning. She _really_ didn’t want to find out how he would drunkenly react if he found her dry humping his captain on the family couch – it wasn’t exactly the sort of situation that made for a funny Thanksgiving story ten years down the road. 

Wesker caught her lips in one last, quick kiss, nodding in agreement. “To your room, I presume?”

“No, we’re gonna fuck in Chris’s room,” Claire deadpanned. “ _Duh_ , my room. It’s the first one on the right, just up the stairs. C’mon.” She slid off his lap and padded quietly around the couch, craning her neck to check on the basement door one last time and ensure that nobody was about to come out, then quickly making her way up the stairs. Wesker followed her, looking notably less disheveled and flushed than she did.

The dark walls of her small bedroom were plastered with an eclectic mess of things – posters, old photos, magazine cutouts, crinkled competitor’s numbers she’d saved from when she ran track in highschool, a small collection of dented motorcycle license plates she’d accumulated over the years. Christmas lights strung up around the room cast a soft glow, illuminating everything with a mellow golden light; Wesker didn’t seem like a fuck-in-the-dark, missionary-only sort of person, so she figured he wouldn’t pay it much heed. A desk and her dresser were shoved up against one wall and stacked high with textbooks and scattered schoolwork and cardboard boxes full of CDs, while her bed was up against the opposite wall, nestled in a corner and piled with laundry she’d been meaning to put away for the past several days but had, in actuality, been moving between her desk chair and her mattress depending on whether she needed to sleep or study. 

Embarrassed, Claire gathered the clothing up in her arms and shoved it into her closet, quickly shutting the door and kicking her boots off into the closet with the pile – out of sight, out of mind, and out of their way. Wesker quietly closed her bedroom door behind himself, turning the lock until a metallic _click_ sounded. She watched him tug off his gloves and carefully unlace his boots, setting them aside.

“Now that we have some more privacy..” Wesker trailed off, closing the gap between them and sliding a hand behind her neck, his grip tight, possessive. Claire clutched at the front of his shirt as he surged downward and met her lips with his in a bruising kiss. His other hand snatched the aviators from the top of her head and let them fall to the ground, and then his fingers were tangling through her hair, one palm coming to rest at the back of her skull and yanking her head back until her neck was craned upward, yielding to him, moaning against his mouth at the pain of her tresses being pulled. Wesker’s other hand trailed down her neck and found the row of buttons he’d been working on before their little interruption, making quick work of thumbing them loose and letting the tight costume top hang open on her shoulders. 

He cupped one of her breasts and weighed it in his palm, traced the lacy edge of her bra with his thumb, a fox-grin and a hum of satisfaction pressed to her lips. Claire shrugged out of her top, let it fall from her shoulders to the floor and allowed herself to be walked backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she fell against the mattress. Wesker hovered over her, lower half pressed to hers, allowing her to feel his cock hard beneath the material of his pants; her eyes widened a fraction at the sensation, and he let out a breathy chuckle. Her bangs were brushed aside and a fleeting kiss was pressed against her lips, then he was moving _down_ , mouth against her neck, her collarbone, sucking a bruise onto her skin and laving his tongue over the mark.

Claire hissed at the sudden pain, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure between her legs. “Only where I can cover them up,” she said, a hand carding through his hair and fisting it when he left another mark on the soft skin of her right breast where it strained against her bra. 

Wesker’s head rose and he met her eyes, a smirk upon his lips. “Don’t worry, dear heart,” he murmured, thumb skating over the quickly-reddening area his mouth had just been tending to. “These will be our little secret.”

_They’d better be,_ she thought, not in the mood to wear a scarf for several days if he decided to surprise her in some way. 

A hand snaked behind her back to pop the clasp on her bra, and Claire quickly shimmied out of it and tossed the article to the floor. Wesker’s hand was back on her in an instant, cupping one of breast and thumbing her nipple to hardness while his mouth found the other. Claire sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, teeth digging into it as she stifled a moan, legs wrapping around his waist, grinding his clothed cock against the warmth between her legs. His tongue moved languidly against her nipple, teasing it, teeth gently grazing her in time with the roll of his thumb and forefinger over the opposite side. Both of her hands threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck, clutching it tight and bringing his mouth closer to her, urging him on. The sharp intake of breath through his nose when she rolled her lower body over his straining cock once more brought a devilish smirk to Claire’s lips; in response, his unoccupied hand slid over her taut stomach and tugged her belt open, popped the button on her shorts, and slipped beneath the waistband of her stockings. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Claire breathed when his fingers brushed against her, thighs nearly clamping shut in a knee-jerk response.

Wesker’s hand left her breast to pin one of her thighs to the mattress, fingers sliding through the slick between her legs in an unbearably slow manner, not slipping inside. Not yet. 

“No underwear?” he questioned, an amused eyebrow quirked. “Naughty.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but her words were inhaled, turned into a gasp when he shoved a finger inside of her, thumb circling her clit. Claire bucked against his hand, fisted the material of his shirt, fingers digging into his broad back. The older man chuckled and then, as abruptly as they were slid inside, his fingers were removed from her.

Wesker rose up on his knees and roughly tugged her shorts off, eyes momentarily flicking to the pair of handcuffs attached to her belt. He bent down to kiss her once more, lips moving lazily against hers, rolling her bottom lip between his teeth, tongue filling her mouth; she was dimly aware of him gathering her wrists in one hand, crossing them over eachother and pinning them against the metal bars of her headboard. Then, a metal _snick_. Something restraining her arms, keeping them extended above her.

Claire pulled her mouth away from his and looked up to find the handcuffs that had come with her officer’s costume clamped tight around her wrists, digging into the skin. She gave an experimental tug – they were sturdier than she’d expected, though she surmised that, should enough force be applied, they could be broken. Wesker met his eyes, unspeaking, a smug look upon his face; fine, she thought. She’d play along.

His hands trailed down her stomach and hooked under the waistband of her stockings, rolling them slowly down her thighs, her calves, pulling them off her ankles and tossing them to the side. Wesker’s hands came to rest on her knees.

“Spread your legs for me, Claire.” It was a command, not a suggestion; the first time she’d ever heard him refer to her as anything more than ‘Miss Redfield,’ or the occasional cheeky ‘dear heart.’ She immediately did as asked, legs falling open. 

Wesker smiled, patted one knee. “Good girl.” He pressed kisses to her stomach and moved downward until his head was between her legs, mouth working against the tender skin of her inner thigh, teeth leaving a trail of small, aching red marks she knew would bruise come tomorrow. And then his mouth was on her – tongue spreading her wide, working her clit, lips against the wet heat, sucking. Claire strained against the handcuffs, rawing her wrists, and buried her face in her shoulder to muffle the moans his tongue drew out of her. 

“Fuck, _Wesker_ ,” she exhaled, words smothered against her arm. She felt him _smile_ against her, tongue sliding in, out, a hand moving to push her firmly back against the mattress when she arched up and cup one of her breasts, thumb working the peaked nipple in time with his tongue on her cunt. An arm hooked around one of her legs and held her steady when her heels dug into his back, thighs tight around him. Claire watched his head move, met his gaze when he looked up at her, eyes hooded, feral; _Christ_ , this was better than any of the boys she’d been with who urged her to suck their cocks and never returned the favor, better than her own fingers, better than the well-used vibrator hidden deep inside of her closet where Chris would never stumble across it. 

She tugged at the cuffs, tempted to pull hard enough and break them so she could tangle her fingers in his hair and hold him there against her. Just as soon as the thought occurred to her, the wet heat against her cunt was gone and Wesker was kneeling between her legs once more, pulling his shirt over his head. He undid his belt and tugged his pants off his legs, discarding the clothes haphazardly to the floor. Claire flushed and ran her eyes down his torso, over abs and a lean V that dipped beneath black briefs strained by his hard cock. 

He let his fingers pick up where his mouth had left off, languidly teasing her and pumping in and out as he kissed her. Claire moaned breathily against his lips, tasting herself on his tongue.

“Condoms?” he murmured, pulling back a fraction to look her in the eyes.

Claire shook her head impatiently. “Not with me. I’m on the pill.”

Wesker’s brows drew together, a skeptic look on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off quickly.

“I’ll stop by the pharmacy tomorrow and pick up some Plan B,” she snapped. “Will you get these things off me?” Claire tugged hard at the handcuffs, rattling them against the metal frame.

“If you beg, I might consider it,” he replied.

Teeth grit, she broke his gaze and refused to say a word, just giving the cuffs another pull. Wesker roughly grabbed her chin in one hand, thumb tugging at her bottom lip, forcing her eyes to meet his, the fingers still working inside of her curling against her walls. “ _Beg_.”

“ _Please,_ ” she whined, hips rocking against him, attempting to fuck herself on his hand. “Please, take them off.”

“That’s a good girl.” His words sent a shiver down her spine. Wesker bent to kiss her and, with an easy yank of surprising strength, snapped the chain of linking the cuffs as if it were no more than a flimsy rubber band. Freed, her hands immediately went to his waist, fingers wrapping around the band of his briefs and pulling them down his legs. Claire reached hungrily for his cock, but he caught her hands and pulled them behind her back, spinning her around until her cheek was pressed to the mattress, ass up in the air, slick thighs parted. 

Wesker let her hands go so she could prop herself up on her elbows and ran two fingers down her cunt, an appreciative moan rumbling in her chest at how wet she’d gotten. He rubbed the head of his cock against her entrance and kneaded her ass with a rough hand. 

“Fuck me,” she whined, writhing back against him. “Please.”

“ _Very_ good,” Wesker purred approvingly. “You’ve learned.” She felt his cock enter slowly, the reward she desired for her begging – then, with an abrupt thrust, he sheathed himself inside of her.

Claire yelped in surprise, fingers clenching the sheets as she rocked back to meet his thrusts. A hand wrapped around her waist and settled on her stomach, the other rolling one of her breasts in his palm, pinching her nipple. Wesker leaned over her, chest pressed to her back, hands pulling her tight against him as he thrust. He was as stern and harsh a lover as he was a Captain, and Claire fucking _loved_ everything about it; he pounded into her forcefully, his hands pulling her to meet every stroke of his cock, whispering _good girl, Claire – just like that_ beside her ear. The flat of his thumb circled her clit, fast and slick, fingers splayed against her lower belly. 

“Oh, god,” she moaned, arms beginning to tremble, feeling the telltale heat that blazed deep in her belly, mounting with every thrust. Wesker’s hand left her breast and gripped her hair, bending her head to the side to meet his mouth. His lips kissed hers with a bruising force, teeth breaking the skin of her lower lip, tongue lapping up the blood that beaded there. 

His thrusts sped up, fingers moved faster, the simultaneous sensations of his cock against that sweet spot inside of her and the pressure on her clit too much. She climaxed, shuddering, moaning his name against his lips. Claire collapsed against the mattress, her ass still in the air as Wesker gripped her hips and thrust hard into her until she felt his movements stutter, the warmth of him filling her. He stayed inside for a few seconds more, chest heaving against her sweaty back; when he pulled out Claire felt his come leak out, mingling with her own wetness as it dripped slowly down her thighs.

Wesker collapsed on the bed next to her, tucking a strand of hair behind one of her ears. “Our little secret,” he murmured, echoing his earlier sentiment. 

His lips were warm and heavy against hers.

\- - - 

Claire stayed in her room after Wesker tidied up and slipped out to rejoin the party, pulling her scattered clothes back on and tying her hair up in a ponytail. She stayed until she heard Chris drunkenly bid his farewells to his friends, then sauntered down the staircase, greeting her brother with a smile.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yup,” he replied, tiredly rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Sorry ‘bout not lettin’ you drink earlier. Twenty-one’ll come soon enough, anyway. No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings,” Claire agreed. She felt something leak from inside her and begin to trail down her leg, and quickly pressed her thighs together. “You should probably get to bed, Chris. You look like shit.”

“All right, all right,” he mumbled.

“Make sure you drink water.”

“Yes, Mom,” Chris replied. She turned heel to walk back upstairs. “Oh – Claire?”

“Yeah?”

Chris gestured to his chest. “Might wanna check your buttons.”

Flushing, Claire quickly pounded up the stairs, fingers doing up the top buttons she’d forgot about. _Dumbass,_ she mentally chided herself.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to iridian who is solely responsible for getting me into a ship with, like, no content, and the title is from [Strange Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Jo25SL56A) by Halsey.
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/starscryy) because I'm desperate for other people to talk to about this ship!


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